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“I just…” I leaned into him. The thought of not being with him made me sick to my stomach. “I just don’t want this to fail.”
He pretended to consider. Usually, Neil not taking an argument seriously drove me up the wall. This time it was somehow comforting. “We could always just have the wedding, not sign the paperwork, and let everyone believe we’re married.”
“We could?” I snuffled. I wished I had some kleenex.
He nodded solemnly. “I’m sure it happens all the time. But, if you want to call off the entire wedding, you’re going to have to eat all those shrimp I paid for.”
I laughed through my tears. “You’re such an ass.”
“I know. It’s no wonder that you don’t want to marry me.” He pulled me close and laughed with me. Or at me. I suspected either was applicable.
I leaned back and looked up into those green eyes that still melted me every time. “Let’s get married.”
“Well, thank god for that.” He hugged me tight, and I heard his breath leave his chest in a stutter. “My vows are fantastic. It would be a shame if no one heard them.” His relief showed through his attempt at humor.
“That’s right. I better start working on mine,” I said, and he sucked in a breath. I looked up at him and sweetly sing-songed, “Just kidding.”
“I will paddle your behind,” he warned with a laugh.
I didn’t take it as a threat. “You’re going to cry when you hear mine,” I teased.
He put his arm around me and steered me toward the door. “Perhaps. But ten-thousand dollars says you’ll cry first.”
It was the best foolish bet I’d ever made.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
This was it. This was the day I was going to get married.
“I need the bag, I need the bag!” I gasped, fanning my face, and Mom shoved a paper lunch sack into my hand.
“Are you hyperventilating or throwing up?” she asked, putting a hand on my wrist as I raised the bag to my face. “Because that isn’t waterproofed on the inside, it’s just a plain sack.”
Mom and I waited in the car outside the Plaza. After her toast the night before, things were a lot calmer between us. I couldn’t have been more grateful; it was going to be a stressful morning, and I needed all the support I could get. The jitters I’d managed to distract myself from had returned with a vengeance overnight, and she’d spent most of our mother/daughter breakfast promising me that everything would be fine.
“I don’t know yet,” I whined. “Oh my god, what is wrong with me? I want to get married to Neil. I know this in my intelligent brain. My heart-brain is going all—” I waved my hands, and the crinkly bag, in the air, and Mom sat back a little to avoid getting poked in the eye.
“Well, you’re having a very big wedding, with a lot of people, and you want everything to be perfect.” Before I could protest, she added, “I know you too well, Sophie. You’re a control freak.”
“I am not! I’m—”
Wow. I spent a lot of time accusing Neil of having control freak tendencies. No wonder I could recognize them. I had so many of my own.
But I wasn’t going down without a fight. “You know, I let Neil plan, like, eighty-five percent of this wedding. I mean, he ran things past me, but he’s picked the flowers, the menu, he’s the one who helped figure out seating arrangements—”
“So, all of that was out of your control,” Mom finished for me.
I glowered at her. “I was really busy working. Neil had the time to do it. I totally relinquished control on the grounds that planning a magazine and planning a wedding are two really big projects, and I couldn’t do them both. And it wouldn’t have been fair of him to expect me to do it all, because—”
“Sophie Anne! Stay focused,” Mom barked like a drill instructor. “Get your ass out of this car.”
I hated when my mom was right. My nerves were making me stall, when I really needed to get my shit together. I’d slept until eleven—my last-night-as-a-single-girl sleepover with Holli had kept me up really late—and now, the clock was ticking.
A cluster of my female relatives were waiting in the Royal Terrace suite. The place was bridal central; two salon chairs were parked in the grandly appointed sitting room area. The scent of congratulations and well-wishing flower arrangements filled the air, as did Aunt Marie’s raucous laugh and enough aerosolized droplets of hairspray that I wondered if we would all get some kind of awful lung disease. April, the hair stylist, had already done Holli’s hair, curled and shaped into a pin-up girl style, and now, she called, “Mother of the bride?” and pointed firmly to the empty chair. Debra, the make-up artist, shooed me toward the lighted mirror.
“We’ll get you done now and do touch ups right before you go backstage,” she said, like it wasn’t completely bizarre to refer to “backstage” as part of a wedding. She had come recommended by Holli, so I assumed she worked in the theatre or television. “You just relax.”
Relax. It would be so much easier to relax if I could just see Neil. I needed him to reassure me. Or to be my focus, I guessed. I pulled my phone from my purse as I sat down and brought up my photos. The last seventeen were of Holli and me trying to take a drunk best friends selfie, but after that, I had a picture of Neil on the beach in front of our house. He wore a gray t-shirt and a pair of comfy-looking, broken-in jeans, the cuffs rolled up above his hairy ankles, and he was smiling at me, squinting into the sun. I took a deep breath and decided I would focus on those times—Neil and I being a normal couple—to get me through the overwhelming production of the day.
